


Bonus Features

by Scribblue



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24479473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribblue/pseuds/Scribblue
Summary: A collection of one-shots, flash fics, AUs, and basically any random writing that doesn't fit within it's own story! Each chapter will be self-contained, and the fandom/ships will be listed at the beginning of each entry. There will be no upload schedule for these snippets, I'll simply upload when I create them, which I don't expect to happen with any consistency. I'm currently neck-deep in the drafting process for Recompense as well as my Stony Star Trek AU, "Star Crossed", so these shorts are more of a stress relief when I want to do something quick and simple!The fandom/ships/characters you can expect, or that I currently have plans to write about:Marvel-Stony (mainly)-WandaVision-IronStrange-Stucky-Spidermire/Threader (Spiderverse OCs)Star Trek-DaForge-Spirk-Marvel crossover AUPossibly more...we'll see!
Relationships: Data/Geordi La Forge, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James T. Kirk/Spock, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Tony Stark/Stephen Strange, Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Comments: 8
Kudos: 3





	1. Collected Memories

FANDOM: Marvel

SHIP: Stony

LOGLINE:

Over the years, Tony has recorded a multitude of voice logs as a way to preserve memories of the people closest to him. One sleepless night, he decides to listen to a few of Steve's. 

═══*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═══

Tony's POV

Not all nights are created equal. Some are endless voids, begging to be filled with something other than restless busy-work and distractions. Perhaps sleep would fix the problem, but it also happens to be the root of the issue; the longest nights are always the ones when my brain is too loud to sleep.

I slipped into bed next to Steve about an hour ago, mostly to quell his worries. He's snoring softly, even though he claims he doesn't ever snore, and his limp forearm is flopped around the small of my waist. It's almost cute enough to convince me to stay in bed, just to watch the pillowcase flutter under his breath until I can't help but fall into my own fitful sleep.

I extricate myself from his grasp as carefully as I can manage, put a pillow in my place, and tiptoe to my workshop. I know the path well, even in the dark. I don't turn on the overhead light, just a small one by my desk, and pull up a holographic screen. "Voice logs," I say.

"Password?" F.R.I.D.A.Y chirps.

"Steve's Sweet Ass."

"Access granted."

The screen changes, and I'm presented with a series of virtual folders, each labeled with the name of someone close to me, and my favorite picture of the subject. Not necessarily the most flattering picture, but my favorite. They're sorted in order of closeness, proximity, amount of logs, and though there's a wide variety, each folder has one thing in common: they're all recorded and logged from my glasses, and no one—and I mean no one—is allowed to know about them.

Maybe it's creepy. I like to think of it as an auditory diary, a way to categorize and compartmentalize my life. A way to feel a person's presence, to analyze their speech patterns, to remember them when I can't be there. Creepy or not, it comes in handy on nights like this, when my brain is on a treadmill and my boyfriend's on REM.

I bring up Steve's folder. Hundreds of logs of various lengths pop up. I lean back in my chair and let it roll away from my desk, clasping my hands behind my head. "FRIDAY, be a doll and shuffle all, won't you?"

"Shuffling all."

There's a short pause before Steve's warm voice starts dancing out of the speakers. It's a log from about half a year ago, when Steve moved into the tower with me. A text transcription scrolls down the screen line-by-line as he speaks.

Steve: [laughing] No, you— Tony. Stop it.

Tony: Stop what? I don't know what you're talking about.

S: You're such an ass, give me that.

T: Ooh, Mr. America said a naughy word! Am I rubbing off on you, already?

[unintelligible background noise, laughter]

S: I'm moving out.

T: On what grounds?

S: My boyfriend won't give me back the feather duster.

T: Oh, sorry, but there's a stipulation on page six paragraph twelve of the contract you signed—oh!

The recording comes to an end, and there's a few moments of silence before it cycles to the next one, dated for a couple months later.

Steve: [out of breath] I saw a really cute dog on my run.

Tony: How cute, on a scale of 1-10?

S: Un-ratable. He was a super fluffy, some kind of German Shepherd mix. I swear he winked at me, Tony.

T: Big whoop, I can do that too.

S: Are you jealous of a dog?

T: No...

S: We should get a dog.

T: Ha, with our schedules? That's basically abuse.

S: Aw, come on. We could get one of those tiny ones you could fit in a backpack.

T: That's actually abuse.

[Distant sound of running water, mixed with off-key singing]

[Sound of door opening]

[Steve shouts]

Tony: What song was that?

Steve: It's called 'knocking is important'.

T: Then lock the door next time, dork.

I'm chuckling to myself until the next log comes on, and the smile immediately drops from my face. It's a segment of a conversation I have nearly memorized, now. One that I've gone back to on multiple occasions, and that leaves me with the most to think about.

It was late when I recorded it, not quite as late as it is right now but late enough that Steve's voice was husky. Sultry. Slow and deliberate. Late enough that thoughts poured out more easily, coaxed with a few cups of wine.

Tony: You never talk about (your family).

Steve: Well, there's not much to talk about. We were a small family. Never had much. Never needed much.

T: Do you miss them?

S: Sometimes. It's been a long time. A long, long time.

[Pause]

S: They didn't live to see me again. They died thinking that I was lost forever. I know it's counter-intuitive, but...I can't help but feel a bit guilty about that, sometimes.

T: Guilty? It wasn't your fault that you ended up on ice.

S: It was my fault, though. It was my decision to take the plane down, the cryogenics were an accidental side effect.

[Another pause]

S: I'm sorry, that was...dark.

T: No, I'm sorry, I probably shouldn't have brought it up.

S: No. No....I'm glad you did.

"FRIDAY, pause."

The log comes to a halt, frozen on a wavelength I can reach out and run my fingers through. Steve's words are still ringing in my ears, heavy with raw emotions I can barely begin to unravel. Even in the silence, it feels like he's in the room with me.

"Tony, what are you doing?"

I jolt. To my surprise, Steve actually is in the room with me— bleary-eyed and all, wearing only his pajama bottoms, leaning against the doorjamb for support. Mo is perched on his shoulders, and she uses his arm as a springboard to hop onto my table, mewing at me like she's equally confused as to why I'm not in bed. Indignant, even.

I consider Steve for a long moment, and then turn back to my desk, raising my hand to dismiss the program. It would be easy enough, just a quick flick of the wrist and they'd be neatly filed away, my little secret until it comes time to draft my will.

Almost too easy.

I drop my hand.

"Come over here," I say, "and I'll show you."

I think it's time to log a new memory.


	2. Delicate Roots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Marvel
> 
> Ship: WandaVision
> 
> Logline:
> 
> After the events of Civil War, Wanda and Vision go off the grid, and find new hope in the form of a garden. 
> 
> [Based off of an Artvenger's prompt on the Marvel Amino, which consisted of randomly generated traits, occupations, and characters! Trait: Thoughtful / Occupation: Farmer / Character: Vision

═══*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═══

Vision's eyes have been brighter lately, and Wanda would give anything to nourish the spark. She sits next to him in the garden, listens to his gentle lectures, and watches as he tends to each individual plant as if not one were more important. His spark is like a roaring fire to her. It warms her the closer she gets.

The world's seemed so dark, dismal, since the Accords were put in place. Since the Avengers were divided, since friends became enemies, since the pool of people that they could trust diminished to a puddle. It took so long to attain any scrap of permanence, and that's using the word loosely; an RV parked in the boonies of West Virginia is about as settled as Vision would allow.

That hasn't stopped him from planting some delicate roots.

"What about this one, Vis?" Wanda asks.

Vision glances to the plant in question, and his blonde eyebrows furrow. He reaches out to graze the wilting leaves, one of which falls into his palm. "Basil. I gave it too much water. The poor thing can hardly breathe." He holds the leaf up towards the sunlight spilling through the foliage—the sun has been our only visitor for months—and studies the back-lit veins.

"Life is...complex," Vision continues. "In many ways, the DNA in this single leaf seems more complicated than all of the neurons that make up my internal code. Plants know what they need, innately. I can't say for certain what I'm feeling most times." He lowers the leaf, and fixes his inquisitive gaze back on Wanda. "Yet for all of that complexity, they ask so little from this world. They simply hope that the sun will continue to rise, and the rain will continue to fall."

Wanda smiles, the kind of smile that starts in your core and works its way out. She cups his face in her hands and traces circles against his temples with her fingers. "And it will," she says. Her voice is quiet, as though anything louder than a whisper would send tremors through the ground.

Vision returns her smile. "And it will."


End file.
